


Moon

by Mossflower_17



Series: Flesh and Stone Mini-Fics [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25115026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossflower_17/pseuds/Mossflower_17
Summary: Some time after the Battle for Erebor, Thorin has a nightmare...
Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield/Ithilrian Tinnulenath, Thorin Oakenshield/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Flesh and Stone Mini-Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815850
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Moon

A new moon was rising over Erebor the night Thorin Oakenshield woke in a cold sweat. He lay there, his eyes open but lying utterly still, breathing fitfully in sharp, shallow gasps. A sob hitched in his throat and he blinked, hard. _It was not true,_ he told himself. _Never happened – never will._

Rolling over, he gazed at the still form of his sleeping wife. Several years had passed under the mountain since the Battle for Erebor, and his subsequent wedding to Ithilrian Tinnulenath. Still, every day her beauty and gentle strength warmed his heart, and he wondered just how he had managed to win her heart. He watched the slow rise and fall of her breathing, trying to calm his frayed nerves, drinking in the sight of her. But it was not enough.

Carefully, he reached out a hand, placing it on her arm, hoping the warmth of her skin would be enough to drown the clamouring panic within him. _She is here, she is alive, she is going nowhere,_ he told himself firmly. Still, it did no good. He shivered. Dawn was still a long way off.

‘Thorin?’ Ithilrian’s voice was slightly muffled, sleep-hazy and soft. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ he replied hastily. ‘Go back to sleep.’

But his quick words had the opposite effect to what he’d hoped. Alerted, perhaps, by the strained tone of his voice, the speed of his response, or possibly just instinct, Ithilrian’s eyes blinked wide, and she turned to him. ‘Thorin,’ she repeated, frowning as she took in the sight of him. ‘My heart, what has happened? Are you alright?’

Already she had snapped into keen wakefulness. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it softly, urging him to answer her. In the dim light cast by the moon’s slim crescent, Thorin found himself staring into a pair of grey eyes that sparkled like a sharp, cold frost in early spring. Her hair too was gleaming in the low light, so much like strands of glimmering _mithril_ that Thorin couldn’t help but reach out to run his fingers through it.

‘Thorin,’ she murmured softly, pulling him into her. ‘My love, you are shaking. Talk to me.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Thorin bowed his head, clenching his fists to try and prevent his hands from trembling. ‘It was a dream, Ithilrian. Nothing more.’

‘Night terrors again?’ Ithilrian sighed deeply, drawing her husband close and wrapping her arms around his strong, muscular frame. ‘Do not fear the darkness, my heart. You are strong. No harm will come to you while I lie by your side, I swear it. Why did you not wake me sooner?’

He shook his head, burying his face in her shoulder. ‘No. Not the terrors again. Those I am accustomed to. This was… different.’

‘Different how?’ she asked. Thorin felt her running gentle, soothing fingers though his long fall of raven hair. He groaned internally, knowing full well that his hair was most likely horribly tangled and soaked with sweat from the nightmare. But this did not seem to perturb his wife, who simply kept combing her fingers though it until his breathing began to even out, and he felt the tension easing slowly from his shoulders.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He raised his head to look at her, drinking in her raw beauty. In the moonlight she seemed a strange, ethereal creature, all silvery grey. ‘It was just a dream, Ithilrian.’

‘Hmm.’ His wife arched an eyebrow sceptically. ‘Something tells me you are not being entirely truthful, _veleth nîn._ What ails your heart?’

Thorin shook his head and swallowed hard. Another dry sob shook his chest, and the words he’d been about to say were halted, lodged in his throat like splinters. ‘I… Ithilrian, I…’

‘It’s alright.’ She began stroking his hair again. ‘You can tell me.’

‘I… lost you, Ithilrian.’ He shook his head again, looking everywhere but her eyes. ‘There was… another battle. Not a big one, but still. Bad enough that you were wounded. Your mother and father, and Lord Elrond, insisted… that we take you to the sea. To go to the Undying Lands, for healing.’ He blinked furiously, trying to banish the tears that threatened to spill. ‘The shores of the sea… there was a harbour, with tall white towers. A city built into a cliff, deserted. You… walked out onto a jetty and stepped on a grey ship. A small one, with white sails. You said, goodbye. I knew… I just knew I would never see you again. I watched you sail away, Ithilrian. I watched you sail into the setting sun, all the time trying to call your name, shouting, screaming, begging you to not go. I wanted to jump in and swim after you, but I couldn’t move. I could only watch as you disappeared from my sight, from this world… from me.’

Thorin’s chest heaved as another sob shook his sturdy frame. He closed his eyes tightly as Ithilrian pulled him into a fierce embrace, burying his head in her mass of silvery hair.

‘Thorin, my Thorin, my heart of hearts,’ she whispered softly. ‘I will never leave you; I swear it. Not like that – not ever. No matter how often the sea sings my name.’ She kept one hand running up and down his spine, as the King Under the Mountain finally gave in, laid his head on his wife’s shoulder, and sobbed as though his sturdy heart would break.

‘Let me tell you about the sea,’ Ithilrian murmured. ‘You have nothing to fear from the wide ocean, Thorin. It only calls to those weary of life on this Middle Earth. I know not what you saw in your dream, but we call the harbour beyond the white towers the Grey Havens. It is a place rich with memories; some good, and some bad. It is where choices are made, both the sweet and the bitter.’

‘Then… it is a real place?’ Thorin muttered.

‘Yes, and no,’ she told him. ‘I do not know what version of it you dreamt of. Perhaps one day you will see the harbour for yourself, and judge. But yes, Thorin, beyond the white towers is where I said goodbye to my sister, long ago. I stood on a jetty, much as you described. I could barely move, think, or speak, so deep was my grief.’ She sighed softly. ‘But I knew that someday, I would see her again; that I would travel across the Sundering Sea once my time here is done. Now? Now… I am not so certain.’

‘What?’ Thorin raised his head, his fear giving way to concern in an instant. ‘Ithilrian, what do you mean?’ He gazed into her wide, grey eyes. There, half hidden by gentle concern, was a flicker of an ancient grief.

‘I mean that when the elves pass from this world, they travel to the Undying Lands, either in body or soul,’ she told him. ‘Some grow tired of this world and take the grey ships into the west. Others die, leave their bodies behind to return to the earth, and their souls are lifted, taken to dwell in the Halls of Mandos, keeper of the slain. There, after a certain time, they may be reborn in new bodies, to walk the sacred earth of Aman and be at peace.’

‘This much you have told me.’ Thorin frowned, not understanding the sorrow that etched his wife’s delicate features. ‘Why speak of this now, Ithilrian? What has changed?’

She shrugged her shoulders, averting her gaze. ‘When I fell in love with you, Thorin Oakenshield, I bound myself to you: to a mortal life, to this Middle Earth. Mine is the choice of Lúthien. No grey ship would bear her to the Undying Lands after she tied herself to Beren. Now… I do not believe there is a ship that would take me, Thorin. That is all to the good; for I do not wish to sail. My purpose is to remain here, at your side, to care for Erebor and its people, and defend them against evil.’ She sighed deeply. ‘However, death comes to us all. Whether from the sword, or sickness, or the relentless march of time… one day, Thorin, I will die. And when that day comes… I do not know what awaits me.’

‘What do you mean?’ Thorin felt cold fear wrap its icy hand around his heart. ‘Ithilrian?’

‘I mean… that I do not know if my soul will still be accepted into the West,’ she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘What will become of me, Thorin? Will I face the same fate as Lúthien, and be lost to both worlds forever? Will I come to the halls of Mandos, the place where elves go but dwarves do not? Or will I drift forever, lost in Middle Earth?’

‘That will not happen.’ Thorin shook his head vehemently. ‘Ithilrian, listen to me.’ He leaned forwards, clasping his wife’s hands in both of his. ‘I do not know how we may live, or how we may die. Those things are not for us to see, Ithilrian. But this I swear to you, upon all that is sacred: _I will find you._ No matter what happens – no matter what forces may conspire to tear us apart. If I go before you, I will wait. If I go after you, I shall seek your soul among the many. But I will not rest until we are united, in the next life as we have been in this one.’ He gazed up at her, seeking affirmation in her grey eyes. ‘Ithilrian?’

The silver elf smiled and shook her head. ‘Oh, my Thorin,’ she murmured. ‘Ever you put my mind at ease when darkness and doubt creep over me. Thank the Valar for the sons of Durin.’ She leaned forwards, wrapping her warm arms around him and nuzzling into his neck. ‘Thank you, my heart,’ she whispered. ‘And do not fear. When the time comes… if I go to the sea… I shall seek you on that far white shore.’

‘I know.’ Thorin held her tightly, as though she were the only thing real in this world of shadows, beneath the thin light of the silvery moon. ‘I know, my love. My silver lady; my queen.’

‘Thorin. My king.’ Ithilrian whispered into the soft skin at his throat. ‘My heart and soul. Rest easy, my love. The night is yet young. Lay your head on my shoulder and have no fear. I shall watch over you until morning, and catch you if you should fall.’

With her gentle words echoing in his ears, Thorin lay back down to sleep. As he did so, a wonderful sense of peace enveloped him, as his wife wrapped tender arms around him, and allowed him to rest his head on her skin. He fell asleep with the soft strains of elven singing soothing his weary soul, as the light of the new moon grew brighter, then fainter, and eventually vanished entirely at the promise of a new dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> An extra dose of Thorin/Ithilrian cuteness for anyone still invested in this pairing! Find more of the same on my Patreon page, www.patreon.com/Mossflower_17 if you want early access to new fics.
> 
> Love Mossie x


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